In the Assembly Rooms of the capital city of the Sister Island there was a public Ball, to celebrate the return to Erin of a British hero of Irish blood, after his victorious Indian campaign; a mighty struggle splendidly ended; and truly could it be said that all Erin danced to meet him; but this was the pick of the dancing, past dispute the pick of the supping.  Outside those halls the supping was done in Lazarus fashion, mainly through an excessive straining of the organs of hearing and vision, which imparted the readiness for more, declared by physicians to be the state inducing to sound digestion.  Some one spied the figure of the hero at the window and was fed; some only to hear the tale chewed the cud of it; some told of having seen him mount the steps; and sure it was that at an hour of the night, no matter when, and never mind a drop or two of cloud, he would come down them again, and have an Irish cheer to freshen his pillow.  For ’tis Ireland gives England her soldiers, her generals too.  Farther away, over field and bogland, the whiskies did their excellent ancient service of watering the dry and drying the damp, to the toast of ‘Lord Larrian, God bless him! he’s an honour to the old country!’ and a bit of a sigh to follow, hints of a story, and loud laughter, a drink, a deeper sigh, settling into conversation upon the brave Lord Larrian’s deeds, and an Irish regiment he favoured—­had no taste for the enemy without the backing of his ‘boys.’  Not he.  Why, he’d never march to battle and they not handy; because when he struck he struck hard, he said.  And he has a wound on the right hip and two fingers off his left hand; has bled for England, to show her what Irishmen are when they’re well treated.

The fine old warrior standing at the upper end of the long saloon, tall, straight, grey-haired, martial in his aspect and decorations, was worthy to be the flag-pole for enthusiasm.  His large grey eyes lightened from time to time as he ranged them over the floating couples, and dropped a word of inquiry to his aide, Captain Sir Lukin Dunstane, a good model of a cavalry officer, though somewhat a giant, equally happy with his chief in passing the troops of animated ladies under review.  He named as many as were known to him.  Reviewing women exquisitely attired for inspection, all variously and charmingly smiling, is a relief after the monotonous regiments of men.  Ireland had done her best to present the hero of her blood an agreeable change; and he too expressed a patriotic satisfaction on hearing that the faces most admired by him were of the native isle.  He looked upon one that came whirling up to him on a young officer’s arm and swept off into the crowd of tops, for a considerable while before he put his customary question.  She was returning on the spin when he said,

‘Who is she?’

Sir Lukin did not know.  ’She ’s a new bird; she nodded to my wife; I’ll ask.’

He manoeuvred a few steps cleverly to where his wife reposed.  The information he gathered for the behoof of his chief was, that the handsome creature answered to the name of Miss Merion; Irish; aged somewhere between eighteen and nineteen; a dear friend of his wife’s, and he ought to have remembered her; but she was a child when he saw her last.